Say, watchman, what of the night?
Do the dews of the morning fall?
Have the orient skies a border of light
Like the fringe of a funeral pall?

'The night is fast waning on high,
And soon shall the darkness flee,
And the morn shall spread o'er the blushing sky,
And bright shall its glories be.'

But, watchman, what of the night,
When sorrow and pain are mine,
And the pleasures of life, so sweet and bright,
No longer around me shine?

'That night of sorrow thy soul
May surely prepare to meet,
But away shall the clouds of thy heaviness roll,
And the morning of joy be sweet.'

But, watchman, what of that night,
When the arrow of death is sped,
And the grave, which no glimmering star can light,
Shall be my sleeping bed?

'That night is near,- and the cheerless tomb
Shall keep thy body in store,
Till the morn of eternity rise on the gloom,
And night shall be no more!'